


let it do what it does

by ricewine



Category: The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 15:00:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10721688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricewine/pseuds/ricewine
Summary: “We’re drunk. It’s late. It could just be…what it is.”





	let it do what it does

**Author's Note:**

> In what will soon become my grand tradition, this is songfic for a country song, so I highly recommend listening to Til It's Over by Old Dominion before/while you read this.

Adam was not meant to carry Blake’s weight. He’s certainly not built for it—he feels like he could buckle under the weight any second. It doesn’t help that he’s not exactly walking straight either. But they’re so close to Blake’s door, he can’t give up now. So he puts all his muscle into holding Blake up, all his concentration into getting to the front door. Which is locked.

“Blake,” he says. Blake is conscious, at least, seems to be pretty much fine except for the slurring and the walking trouble. Which doesn’t really make sense to Adam, because the walking trouble should come last, shouldn’t it? But fine, whatever. “Where are your keys?”

“My pocket,” Blake says, nodding his head down to his pants, still leaning on Adam.

“Well, can you get them please?” Adam asks, a little exasperated. He just wants to sit down. His head is swimming a little—Blake’s not the only one who had too much.

“’ll fall down,” Blake says. He might be right, Adam thinks. Along with the arm slung across Adam’s shoulders, Blake is also braced against the wall next to the door, and what with the size of him, he probably needs both sets of supports.

“I’m gonna kill you,” Adam says, sighing and shifting his weight to his left foot so he can hold Blake up and dig through his pockets at the same time.

“Good thing my pants aren’t as tight as yours,” Blake chuckles as Adam tentatively reaches into his front pocket. Adam blushes—like he really needed more attention called to the awkwardness of this moment. Even with the size of Blake’s pocket, it’s an intimate affair fishing around for his house keys, one Adam has absolutely not anticipated, and one that Blake watches with no change in the serene drunken expression on his face. When Adam finally pulls the keys out, he’s relieved the moment is over.

Unlocking the door takes slightly more finesse than Adam has at the moment, but he manages to get inside without either Blake or himself falling down, so he counts that as a win, despite the fact that he might kind of knock both of them against the door frame on the way in.

He finally drags Blake inside, staggering under his weight, and deposits him unceremoniously on the couch.

“Ow,” Blake protests at the jostling. Adam rolls his eyes. He wants nothing more than to collapse down onto the couch himself, but Blake needs water—Adam knows from experience that if Blake doesn’t hydrate early on, if Blake is every truly and properly hungover (as opposed to just grumpy and unshaven), he turns into the world’s biggest baby. Adam’s heard the whining before and doesn’t care to hear it again, especially when his own hangover is seeming pretty inevitable. So he drags his ass to the kitchen and fills a couple glasses with water.

He drinks one himself, quickly, leaning against the refrigerator and looking around the dark kitchen. It’s weird, he thinks, how no matter how many times he’s been here, he’s never quite comfortable—always feels afraid to disturb something, like it’s more a display than a home. Which, if he’s being honest, it sort of is. Blake never put a whole lot of effort into making a home in LA, and when Miranda left, any personality the house once had left with her. It makes Adam sad, for reasons he doesn’t altogether understand.

He refills his own water glass and carries them both back out to the couch, where he puts the other glass into Blake’s hand and says “drink this” before finally sitting down himself.

Blake finishes his water fast, and Adam considers getting up to get him more. But he’s just so comfortable on the couch. It depends how Blake is feeling, he reasons. Maybe he can hold off for a few minutes.

“How ya doing, cowboy?” he asks.

Blake doesn’t answer at first, and Adam turns to watch him, mildly concerned. Blake is…well, he’s Blake. He drinks. It’s what he does—drinking and annoying Adam. He’s never seen Blake _too_ drunk, and doesn’t really want to. He gets the feeling nobody really knows what they’d be bargaining for on that one.

“Blake?” he asks again.

“I’m okay,” Blake says. “Just thinkin’.” He’s leaned back all the way on the couch, his head sagging back onto the ledge. Adam instinctively grabs a throw pillow to put under it.

“About what?” he asks, reaching over and tucking the pillow under Blake’s neck.

“You.”

Adam can’t help the little jolt of surprise he feels in his gut, but follows it up with a snort anyway. “That’s what I like to hear, buddy,” he says.

Blake shifts, sloppily, pulling the pillow from his neck and putting it behind his back as he rotates to face Adam. “I’m serious,” he insists.

Adam rolls his eyes. “Well, Blake, I like to think I’m _always_ on your mind.”

Blake chuckles. “You’re not,” he says, and Adam smiles, letting his stomach settle. The moment has passed. Adam finishes his water and pulls himself back onto his feet. “More water?” he asks.

Blake smiles up at him and hands him his empty glass. “You take such good care of me,” he says, his voice syrupy smooth and sweet.

“Anything for you, dear,” Adam says as he walks back into the kitchen. He refills both glasses and sets them on the counter before opening the cabinet over the sink. “Hey, do you have any Advil?” he calls to Blake when he’s greeted with an array of barbecue and hot sauces rather than the medicine cabinet-light he expected. This kitchen, man.

“Maybe upstairs,” Blake calls back.

“Okay, so that’s not happening,” Adam says, picking the water glasses back off the counter and joining Blake in the living room again.

When Blake reaches his hand out for his water, Adam realizes he doesn’t remember whose glass is whose anymore. On a practical level, it doesn’t matter, and he hands Blake the one in his right hand randomly. But for some reason, there’s a little rush in his stomach at the chance that the glass he’s handed Blake was his own.

Blake, again, downs his water in one go. He turns his glass in his hands and looks down at it while Adam sits back down next to him.

“Hey, Adam?” Blake says softly.

“Yeah?” Adam watches Blake stare down at the empty glass in his hands, suddenly curious. Blake isn’t usually this quiet—something’s on his mind.

“Do you ever think about—” Blake cuts off in the middle of the sentence. He puts the glass down on the coffee table.

“Think about what?” Adam asks. For some reason, he feels his heart rate increase.

“Nothin’,” Blake says. “I should get to bed.” He pulls himself into a standing position.

Adam feels a step or two behind as Blake turns to him, stretching his arms.

“Do you wanna stay?” Blake asks. “I can make up the guest room.” As if Adam’s never slept on this very couch.

“Blake, what—”

“Or I could call a car,” Blake continues, as if he’s trying to deflect. Adam doesn’t know what’s happening but something in his gut is telling him it’s important to find out. He stands and follows as Blake picks up their water glasses and heads towards the kitchen.

“Hey,” Adam says, catching Blake by the wrist and meeting his eyes.

He barely has time to register the resolved look on Blake’s face before his entire field of vision is Blake, Blake’s scent surrounding him, Blake’s lips coming down on his decisively. It takes a moment to understand what’s happening—that Blake is _kissing_ him, lips and tongue insistent on his own. Also, he’s kissing back, leaning in, hands tight on Blake’s upper arms, body pressing into Blake’s without any encouragement from his brain.

Blake is the one to pull away, which is good because Adam’s head is starting to swim. He gasps for breath and lets go of Blake’s arms.

“So,” Blake says, his eyes still trained on Adam’s lips. “Do you wanna stay, or—?”

“What?” Adam asks.

Blake’s eyebrows crinkle. “Do you want to stay?” he asks slowly, enunciating with a smirk.

“But…what was that?” Adam asks, still a step behind.

Blake’s smile fades. “I thought…” he says, then swallows hard and brushes a hand through his tousled hair. “I’ll call you a car.”

Blake retreats into the kitchen, and Adam stands still, trying to figure out exactly what just happened, and why his heart is trying to pound out of his chest. He feels like…well, frankly, he’s turned the fuck on, and would prefer not to leave. But it’s…Blake. He never thought…but _god_ , it was good, wasn’t it? Adam hasn’t been kissed like that in a long time. But it’s _Blake_. It’s Blake and they’re drunk and tired and this can only be messy. Complicated and messy and…now. It can only be now. And that sets a dull ache in his stomach that only kind of surprises him.

Blake comes back into the room, glasses safely put away in the kitchen, and Adam goes with his gut, turns off his brain, catches him by the wrist, and kisses him again.

Blake’s response is delayed for a moment, then vigorous, arms wrapping tightly around Adam, lifting ever so slightly as he kisses him, so Adam’s on his tiptoes. Which makes him feel kind of like an idiot, he realizes as his brain—unfortunately—turns back on and he pulls away.

“What are we doing?” he asks.

Blake brushes the tip of his nose up Adam’s jaw. “Does it matter?” he says into Adam’s ear.

Adam shivers. “Well…yeah?” he says, not entirely convinced himself.

Blake sighs and lets go of Adam, taking a step back. _No, no, no,_ every cell in Adam’s body seems to scream. He takes a deep breath in, focusing on the words Blake is saying, and not the taste of his mouth.

“Listen, Adam,” Blake says, swallowing hard. “If you wanna leave right now, or…I don’t know, crash on the couch, that’s fine. I won’t try to stop you and we don’t ever have to talk about it again.”

He looks down. Adam swallows. That’s not what he wants—is it? His head is spinning.

“But if you want…” Blake continues, seemingly struggling with the words. “I just…” he looks at Adam again, his eyes lit up with…well, something. “I’m here. Whatever you want.”

But what _does_ Adam want? This isn’t a question he ever thought he’d have to answer for real, and despite what other people seem to think, he doesn’t have an answer ready to go. There’s so much to think about—work, the press, their friendship. Blake standing in front of him, all tall and masculine, biting his lower lip. Adam rubs his forehead.

Blake takes a careful step forward, catching the hand on Adam’s forehead, rubbing his thumb across Adam’s knuckles. It feels nice.

“You’re gonna wear yourself out, thinkin' that much,” he says softly, the teasing tone in his voice not totally masking the vulnerability.

“It’s a lot to think about,” Adam snaps, a little more harshly than he means it to come out.

Blake smiles softly7 and drops Adam’s hand. “It doesn’t have to be,” he says. “We’re drunk. It’s late. It could just be…what it is.”

The words fall heavily into the charged air between them. _What it is._ Blake is so close to him, smelling like liquor and himself, the heat from his body radiating into Adam’s space, his eyes on Adam’s looking so…raw and open, and _god_ , Adam wants…

_It is what it is_ , he thinks as he closes the short distance between them, throws himself against Blake and kisses him fervently. Blake’s arms move to lock around him, hands gripping his ass and pulling him back towards the couch. And for a while, that's all Adam can think about--the solid weight of Blake's body pressed against his, the frantic but confident motion of Blake's fingers on the buttons of his shirt, the rough slide of Blake's facial hair against his face as he kisses him. It's _incredible_ , unlike Adam ever would have expected. He could spend days kissing Blake like this, on the couch, lights on, slow and deep and steady. Blake's lips are somehow soft, much softer than he would have thought, but still hard against his own, setting the pace and driving Adam wild.

Adam loses himself entirely as Blake's hands work over his torso. Only his torso. Adam cants his hips upward, seeking, _god_ …contact? Friction? Something. Blake smiles against his lips, and Adam wants to smack him, wants to smack him right upside his dumb country head. The problem is that's far from the only thing he wants to do to him right now, and it's one of the less pressing urges.

"Slow down, rockstar," Blake whispers, pulling away from Adam's lips and moving to his left ear. "We've got all night."

And much as Adam hates it, much as he wants...well, everything, those words turn his overactive brain back on again. They have all night. What about tomorrow? What happens then? He wants to stop it, this overthinking—he made his choice already. It is what it is. But he's not wired that way—his brain doesn't turn off, even with the very preoccupying facts of Blake's tongue in his mouth and Blake hard against his hip. Despite all that, despite the desperate way Blake is kissing down his body, he can't shut down the little voice in his head asking the seemingly essential questions. He stares up at the ceiling. What about tomorrow? What about next week? What about...forever? It is what it is, sure, okay. But what exactly is it?

"Adam?"

Adam looks down at where Blake is, hovering over the waistband of his jeans, pupils blown and lips red. Jesus, that's hot. Adam swallows hard.

"We can stop if you want," Blake says carefully.

"No." It comes out without Adam's permission, out of his control. "God, no, don't stop."

There it is. His overworked, over-liquored brain isn't controlling him anymore. Blake's hands are so warm against his stomach; his eyes are so blue staring into Adam's. Adam's arms have taken over, grabbing Blake and hauling him up to kiss him again. He's in it now—the only thing to do is take in as much of it as he can. Sensations. Blake's fumbling hands pulling down his zipper. The taste of sweat on Blake's neck. The shift of the couch cushions as Blake pulls Adam's pants all the way off then reaches up to palm him through his boxer briefs.

The thing is, Blake is still going so _slow,_ tentative, like he's afraid Adam's going to run. Which is probably fair, Adam thinks wryly. But he's damn near vibrating out of his skin at this point, a product of Blake's slow torture and the redirected nervous energy from his now-quieted brain. He needs touch, faster and more. He needs Blake to feel the same kind of urgency he does--but Blake is taking his sweet time about it, kissing a slow line from Adam's ear down to his chest, his hand still—unfortunately—outside Adam's underwear.

It's such a fragile situation. Adam's not going to run—he's past that now, grows more and more past that every biting kiss Blake sucks into his skin (he's going to have a line of hickeys to show for it). But he doesn't know how to direct, doesn't know how to cross the line from hesitation to enthusiastic participation to...control? What does he want?

"Upstairs," he says. It comes out strangled and breathy, and he marvels at the effect it has on Blake, who sits upright and smiles that lazy smug smile.

"If you say so," he says.

Adam nods. "I say so."

Blake smiles again, pulls Adam upright and tugs him by the hand until they're both standing. Blake kisses him again and it's all Adam can do to keep from shoving him like they're in middle school.

"Upstairs _now,_ " he says.

Blake laughs and pulls Adam into his arms. Adam wraps his legs around Blake's waist and clings tightly as Blake sways under the weight. Maybe making him carry him isn't the best idea—they're still drunk, after all. God, they're still drunk. But he closes his eyes, presses his face into Blake's neck, and stops fucking thinking about it all. It is what it is.

 

* * *

 

Adam's mouth is dry when he wakes up to Blake snoring like a bear. His mouth is dry and his head is pounding and every thought he managed to keep at bay last night is suddenly echoing in his ears at an insane decibel level. What the fuck did they _do?_

He extricates himself from Blake carefully, finds his underwear, pulls it on, and starts downstairs. He needs water. Water and his medication, but that he'll have to go home for.

Once he's in the kitchen chugging water, he thinks maybe that's a good idea anyway, going home. He doesn't want to face a sober, possibly regretful Blake, with all the questions floating around in the air between them. It's all well and good to say "don't worry" when it's 2 AM and Blake Shelton's got you pressed into his couch but it's the morning now and he's worried. It's what he does—worry.

And Blake's the one who said it—it doesn't have to mean anything, be anything. It's over. If it doesn't mean anything, they don't have to have the conversation, right?

Adam finishes his water, leaves the glass in the sink, and goes into the living room to gather up his clothes. He gets dressed quickly, covering up the debauched marks coloring his body. When they're hidden, it's like nothing happened. His phone is still in his jean pocket, and he calls a car. Usually he hates doing that, would prefer to uber if he's not going to drive himself. But an uber driver doesn't have the same kind of confidentiality policy that Blake's usual car company does, and he doesn't want to have to face a headline about his walk of shame out of Blake Shelton's house at 8:42 on a Saturday morning.

He sits on the couch while he waits for the car. He feels horrible—hungover and tired and guilty and confused. Part of him thinks the best thing to do would be to go upstairs, wake up a still-sleeping Blake, and have this conversation. But he doesn't know what he would say, what there even is to say. He's making the right choice now. If Blake wants to talk, he knows where to find him.

The car arrives and Adam lets himself out quietly, locks the door behind him, watches Blake's house disappear as they drive away. He doesn't know when he'll be back, when he'll hear from Blake, what things will be like between them moving forward. He closes his eyes and tries to convince himself that no matter what happens, it was worth it. Because maybe it was. Maybe they were due. Maybe things will be better now than they were. Or maybe not. He bites his thumbnail. There's nothing he can do now--he made his choice, and now he just has to wait and see what happens next. It's over.

It was what it was.

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr @shewillbevined


End file.
